


Like you're giving up

by ithoughtslashmeanthorror



Series: See how deep the bullet lies [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games), Gotham (TV)
Genre: Bat Family, Batfamily Feels, Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, Bruce is trying, Gen, I hate tagging, Jason Todd Has Issues, Knightfall protocol, Please don't make me come up with more, Protective!Bruce, hurt!jason
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-11 01:30:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13513935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ithoughtslashmeanthorror/pseuds/ithoughtslashmeanthorror
Summary: Safe in Mazatlán, Bruce patiently helps Jason recover, as Jason tries to reconcile the thoughts in his head with his action.





	1. Breakfast

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sleepy right now, but I figured I'd upload this before bed because I finished it.

Jason woke up to the sunlight on his face and a warmth across his chest. Which was weird, because he’d been alternatively sleeping on a park bench and in the back of _El Centauro_ in one of the rickety cots. That meant he either had one or the other. The sunlight or the warmth. It was never both.

He opened his eyes up and a flood of white almost burnt his retinas, until they adjusted, and he found himself in a bedroom, and he remembered.

Well, _remembered_ was a strong word.

Bruce had told him, somewhere along in the night, that Jason had called him. Jason had no recollection of calling Bruce though, and hadn’t completely ruled out the old man putting a tracking chip on him. If he had called Bruce – Bruce Wayne, recently outed billionaire also known as the Batman – it was only because he had been very drunk, and concussed. The combination wasn’t pleasant, especially the morning after, when he wanted to throw up and fall down at the same time, all the while he was lying flat in bed. He groaned and threw a hand over his eyes to block out the sunlight and wished, more than anything, for those heavy red curtains at Wayne Manor, that made midday feel like midnight.

Far away he could hear something moving in the house. A sliding door opened and shut. Some pots in the kitchen. Jason could have slept through it if he wanted to. All of it. When Jason felt like it, he could sleep for days.

He got up, his body protesting at every nerve ending. He groaned, leaning forward and grabbing his ribs. A part of him wanted to call out for Bruce but he squashed that part of himself. He didn’t want to become reliant. The night before, with the bath and the tearstained confessions, was hard enough. Jason was never one to wear his emotions on his sleeve. He wasn’t on Dick Grayson’s level of emotional vulnerability – pretty much the only time he was happy to be darkly shrouded in the former Robin’s shadow.

Despite the fact he felt like was on a rocking boat and his bones were bruised, Jason got up, leaning heavily on the bed head for a moment. He hissed slowly, pretending the gasp of air was releasing all the pain. He straightened up and sucked in another deep breath to steady himself and found his bag on the couch against the back wall. He looked for his cigarettes but they weren’t there. He found a packet in his inside pocket and pulled out a box with his last one. He grinned and pulled the cigarette to his lips, but couldn’t find any matches. He figured there would be a gas stovetop somewhere in the fancy house. Or at least, a bunch of candles.

He opened the door and shuffled out into the hall. The thick carpet beneath his toes was warm. Jason couldn’t believe how cold he was. He was in Mazatlán during the dry season, and he was cold. There was definitely something wrong with him. Maybe there had been something wrong with him for years now. Five to be exact.

He limped down the stairs that twisted around the side of the walls. He hadn’t been able to see the place he was staying in the night before. He hadn’t been awake when they arrived. But the place was nice. He held the rough wall with one hand and went down one step at a time, dragging his left leg behind him. He wasn’t sure what he did to it. Just that he hurt a hell of a lot more than it should have for a morning after. But so did his head. And his arms. And pretty much every single inch of him.

Downstairs, Jason followed the noise that sounded like it was coming from a kitchen. At the entrance, he found books. Books and weapons. _Talia,_ he thought to himself, rolling his eyes. He regretted that. All he did was agitate his migraine. He had to walk through an archway into an extravagant dining room and then a set of doors to get into the kitchen.

He pushed them open by leaning heavily against them, unable to call upon any real strength. The first thing his eyes fell on was Bruce. He had his back to Jason, at a stove top along the left wall. Behind him was a chopping board and laying innocently on that, was a knife. How easy was it for him to grab that knife, creep up behind and slice his–

Jason blinked out that image from his head, as it overlapped with a memory of a sharp pain in his face. He touched the ‘J’ and pushed those feelings down.

Bruce briefly looked up at him as the smell of eggs and toast hit his nostrils. “You cook?” he asked, trying to forget the thoughts.

“Sometimes, Alfred goes on holidays,” Bruce deadpanned. He took whatever he was cooking off the stove and walked around the kitchen island to grab a chair. “I would’ve brought it upstairs.”

“Probably better that you didn’t. Your Florence Nightingale routine is really creeping me out.” Jason grunted as he sat down, pain flaring up in his side. “Fuck.” He slipped the cigarette out of his mouth. “I need a lighter.”

“No smoking in the house,” Bruce said. Jason groaned and tried easing himself off the chair again but Bruce made him sit. “You’re going to eat.”

He glared at Bruce but a plate of steaming hot eggs, bacon, potatoes – that somewhat resembled hash browns, but still looked good – and cheese, was in front of him and the smell made his mouth water. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate, let alone the last time he ate something that was half-way edible or home cooked.

He picked up a fork Bruce put next to him and stuck it in just as Bruce put a coffee on his other side and a bottle of water. “Alfred would commend your effort,” Jason said, sculling down the whole bottle of water like a dying man.

Bruce pressed his hand on his shoulder. “I think he’d be annoyed if I let you drown yourself.” He took the bottle from his hand and put it back on the table, just a little further away. “At least don’t choke.”

Jason shrugged and dug in. He wasn’t sure how quick he finished the food, just that Bruce was serving his own plate by the time Jason was done. He sat down and pointed at the stove with a fork. “There’s more. If you’re still hungry.”

Jason was, but he was at that point that if he did eat more, he’d be sick. He remembered his first meal after getting out of Arkham and he’d stuffed himself so much that he’d thrown it all up and been sick for weeks. “Slow and steady,” he said beneath his breath.

He had put his cigarette down on the counter and picked it up. “Are there any lighters in here?” he asked.

“I’d rather you didn’t smoke,” Bruce said instead of an answer.

He raised his eyebrow. “I’d rather not be here, but hey. We’re both losing.” He saw the gas stove top, just as he’d predicted and put the cigarette in his mouth again. He pressed his cheek against the counter, staring into the tiny holes of the stove and turned it on. For a second, only gas fumes slithered out, bending the light and turning the world blurry. A dark thought ripped through his head. _Just inhale._

Then came the spark.

The stove lit up and Jason barely blinked. He wasn’t afraid of fire. Not of its warmth or its light. He wasn’t even afraid of its burn. In Jason’s experience, the burn itself wasn’t the worse of the pain. Fire healed worse than it burnt, with aches and pains that lasted weeks.

He inched close enough that the tip of the cigarette pressed into the flames and sucked until smoke started gathering in his mouth and he breathed it down into his lungs. With a relieved sigh, the nicotine began to work immediately and he straightened up, leaning heavily on the counter and flicking off the stove. “Thank fuck.”

“Outside,” Bruce said and Jason waved him off and limped over to the door. He pushed open the sliding door that felt heavier than a car with his injuries and panted, leaning back against the doorway.

“You know, it’d be easier to breathe without all the nicotine,” Bruce said mildly, eating his breakfast slower than Jason had.

“If you haven’t noticed, I’m in a lot of… _shit_.” He glared at his coffee, still on the kitchen island an entire room away. He held out his hand, trying to reach for it childishly. “It’s too fucking far,” he said, hoping Bruce would bring it to him.

No such luck.

“Put the cigarette out, come inside and you can have a coffee.” Bruce smirked.

“I am a pack a day smoker.” Jason glared at Bruce. “I’m in a shit ton amount of pain. I don’t need to withdrawal right now.” He sucked in more smoke, letting it feel his lungs, calm his anxiety. The slight tremor in his hand stilled. His head cleared. He had quit for a long while. Between the ages of fifteen to seventeen. Eighteen, really. But he rarely ate while he was locked in Arkham, let alone got to smoke.

It didn’t count. He liked to think that, that year of his life didn’t count for anything. Jason used to believe that when Bruce was dead, that year would all be erased. But all he could think about since The Siege was that everything he had done to go after Bruce was because of whatever The Joker had done to him in that year. “I’ll buy you patches when I go into town tomorrow,” Bruce said quietly. He stared at Jason’s cigarette and Jason glanced down at it. It was almost out an it had been less than a minute. “And gum.”

“So I’m quitting now? Cause you said?” Jason threw out the butt out onto the grass and limped back in. He leant heavily on the kitchen bench and stretched his hand out to grab the coffee, but it was still out of reach.

Bruce slid it over into his palm. “You don’t have to quit. But I’m not buying you cigarettes. So unless you get money…”

“You’re preying on my vulnerabilities there, B.” Jason dragged a seat around, grunting again as he had to lift his body up and settle it back on the too small seat. “Do you have any more painkillers at least?”

Bruce nodded and pulled a packet out of his pocket, sliding it down the table to Jason. He gratefully took three – there were only three left in the blister – and chugged it down with hot coffee. When he put the coffee down again, he looked over at Bruce who was being quiet and studying him. He’d forgotten he did that. Just stared with a thoughtful expression.

He didn’t do it when he was being _Bruce Wayne_ , playboy lush. Only when he was being Bruce, socially awkward recluse. He had never quite understood how _Bruce Wayne_ could be a charmer while Bruce had a hard time figuring out where to put his hands. “How’d you get me out of there last night?” Jason asked, suddenly wondering if Bruce had charmed or bribed Alejandro to get into the back of the cantina.

“Selina tracked your phone for me and I threatened to shoot the guys at the bar.”

Jason winced as the coffee burnt that back of his throat just the slightest bit. “Well, looks like I’m not going back there, then.”

“That was never an option.” Bruce was picking at his food, mostly staring at Jason and Jason had enough.

“Okay, so what’s the deal?” Jason asked. Bruce raised his eyebrow. “With this place? With us? What are we doing here, B?”

Bruce frowned. “I told you last night. We get better.”

“Better? Better how?” Jason demanded.

“Just… You need to heal, Jay. I need to rest. Everyone thinks we’re dead. Let’s just… Use this as a vacation.” Bruce settled on. “Once you’re physically better, we can keep training. We can talk. I want to know what The Joker did to you. What you did after. I want to find out why you think I’m the enemy and maybe, help you.”

Jason’s eyes moved from Bruce to the chopping board and knife that were still on the table. He closed his eyes and tried to block out the war going on within him.

_Kill Bruce._

You can’t kill Bruce.

_But he’s the one who let you get tortured._

Joker lied.

_Bruce is lying._

Sometimes the argument was silenced by his happiness, or his worry. Like when Bruce had admitted that he was planning to die the night of The Siege to protect Gotham, fear flooded up in him as he thought about a world without Bruce. He realised, he didn’t want that. After all he had done, a part of his heart didn’t want Bruce to die.

Then, some of the good memories started to come back.

Ice cream after missions, quiet laughter as Jason made a joke, falling asleep in the study only to walk up warm and content in his bed… Things he would never have had if it wasn’t for Bruce. But they were only fleeting. Like butterfly wings, they disappeared soon after he touched them. He didn’t know why they were so hard to recall. “I’ve got it under control,” Jason said softly.

But Bruce’s eyes had followed Jason’s to the knife and he had reached the same trail of thought. Instead of pointing it out to him though, Bruce repeated himself, only softer. “I want to help you.”

Jason frowned, glaring at the table, fists tightening. “I was tortured. For over a year. Two-Face, Penguin, Riddler, Killer Croc, Zsasz, Bane, Scarecrow, _Calendar Man._ I knew what you were doing on the outside because they would come in and punish me for it on the inside. Every blow to their ego, every hit to their body, I got twice of in there. And I was tied down. I couldn’t fight back. I couldn’t even move. Then in between, Joker and that damn crowbar. Harley and her sessions. Random inmates who could do whatever they wanted to me. I was always just begging for death. Constantly, praying for it. I wanted it to be over. I wish I had just died in there.” He hadn’t realised how fast he was speaking or how much emotion had travelled into his voice until a hand came down on his shoulder and Bruce was turning him around until they could look each other in the eye.

Bruce was blurry. His chiselled features appeared to be swimming and then Jason realised, he was crying. He tried to stop it. He had no idea what overcame him the night before. He hadn’t cried for anything before that and now it was like a tap had been turned on inside of him and was leaking all I’ve the place. The shadow of Dick Grayson was becoming smaller and Jason seemed to be standing out by himself in some emotional light. “I’m sorry, Jason. That I didn’t find you, that I stopped looking, that you were punished for what I did…” Bruce reached his hand up and his thumb traced the ‘J’ over his face. Down from under the eye, curling up in a hook towards his nose. “But never think that you would be better off dead. It’s not okay. You are so much stronger than that, son.”

 _Kill him,_ a cold voice whispered in his mind. _Have it over with. Now’s the perfect opportunity to –_

Jason pushed Bruce’s hand away and got up. “I’m going back to bed,” he said hoarsely, moving around the island, the opposite way from Bruce and the knife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, grammar and spell check me. Seriously, I'm exhausted. I may have written about elephants, I'm not exactly sure.


	2. The Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm highly concerned with the number of tears you all seem to be shedding.
> 
> Please keep hydrated. *hands out bottles of water*

Bruce was getting impatient. Waiting for Jason to talk wasn’t easy. Not while he shuffled around the house, healing his injuries in clothing more suited to Gotham winter nights than hot Mazatlán, and taking six to seven-hour naps. It was something he mentioned on the third day though, that Bruce began to worry.

He had handed Jason nicotine patches from behind the cream leather couch and noticed the bruising on his face was clearing up, and the swelling was gone. “You’re healing quickly.”

Jason shrugged and leant back into the cushions. He was watching a telenovela with concentration usually reserved for crime solving. “I tend to do that.”

“You didn’t.” The word _before_ went unspoken. Bruce still wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

“Yeah well…” Jason lifted his hand to his neck unconsciously and there Bruce could see a puckered scar of what looked like a catheter.

“Did… Did they give you something?” Bruce asked, working very hard to keep himself calm. He had been doing that a lot since Jason broken rant, about the villains and what they’d done to him. He had wanted, very much, to go back to Gotham in that second and rampage through Blackgate where he knew they would all be. He had dreamt about it. Dreamt about throwing those prisoners into Arkham, and delivering them to Jason so they could torture him. Dreamt about his fists punching through Two-Face and Zsasz and landing into Jason’s already bruised flesh.

He hadn’t slept through the nights, choosing instead to sit guard outside Jason’s door, waiting for the phantoms to come.

“I don’t know. Maybe,” Jason mumbled, still rubbing his neck. “Harley… the doctors… They’d all give me different stuff. Never knew what.” He was still staring at the TV, but his eyes had become distant, staring into nothing.

Bruce wanted to ask him which doctors. He wanted to go and run blood tests straight away. Vomit curled up in the pit of his stomach as he thought of The Joker, trapped somewhere deep inside of his mind and the wicked curl of a smile he had seen dancing on Jason’s face during the drive came back to him.

He was dragged back to reality as the soft thump of a back against the couch reminded Bruce he wasn’t alone. Jason had tilted his head back, staring up at the ceiling with the same gawking expression he’d save for the television a minute ago. Bruce decided he didn’t want Jason to look that way. Like he was on another plane of existence. Bruce needed to do something about it, and it was an instant fix problem. “So, who’s Esmeralda sleeping with now?” he asked, instead, settling down at the end of the couch.

Jason’s eyes snapped towards Bruce, humour flickering behind them. “You watch this crap?”

“Says the man who watched the catch-up marathon last night that finished at three,” Bruce muttered, and Jason turned red. He dragged Jason’s feet onto his lap. There was another lounge in the room, but he seemed to remember Jason always wanting to watch television with him and always ending up tucked under his arm. “Anyway-”

“There’s nothing else on but reality TV.” They said together, and Jason glanced up at him, a small smile on his face. “What? You don’t want to Keep Up with the Kardashians?”

Bruce had no idea what he was talking about. “The who?”

Jason snickered to himself and pulled the blanket he had over him further up to his chin. Bruce didn’t mention the fact it was almost summer outside. He just turned the heater up inside and wore a thin t-shirt to compensate. “Really? You’d think you were the one living off in remote locations.”

“No. I live in a cave.”

Jason’s laughter – real, non-sarcastic, _free_ laughter – was music to his ears.

* * *

Just because he was laughing with Jason again, didn’t mean the concern went away. The next morning Bruce went into Jason’s room and knocked lightly on the door. When he heard the call to go in, Bruce opened the door but ventured no further. Jason looked up from where he was lying on the bed, reading something that wasn’t in English.

He closed the book, thumb resting in between the pages, a curious frown on his face. It occurred to Bruce that he hadn’t really been up in Jason’s bedroom (and it had been so long since he had a room called ‘Jason’s bedroom’ that didn’t make him want to break something, it felt abnormal) since that first night. Now he was inside again, Jason had somewhat made himself at home in it. There were piles of books, taken from around the house on the half of the bed he wasn’t sleeping in, and his red helmet was on the desk, a part of the visor shattered. His armour was in the open closet that had been sorted through for clothes his size and sat on the table in there like a trophy on display. “What?” Jason asked.

Bruce stopped staring at the room and looked back at Jason who had sat on the end of the bed, as if ready to attack. But then Bruce realised it was so his son wouldn’t look as prone. “Two men are coming to install the Internet. If you want to stay and pretend you’re not here, that’s fine.”

“And if I want to come down?” Jason always had to counter him. To push boundaries, see if they could stretch. It was tiresome for Bruce, who mostly spoke in finite terms. He thought the _if_ gave that answer away, but Jason liked specifics, and he heard Dick’s voice in his ear telling him not to take the bait.

“That’s fine too. This is just a warning, there will be people in the house,” Bruce shrugged. Jason nodded once, and his thumb knocked the book cover over in his hands so he could return to the page. Bruce looked at the book again and a few of the ones on the bedside, in Portuguese, Arabic and Spanish. He wasn’t surprised by the Portuguese. At seventeen, Jason had known four languages - English, French from school, German and Italian from Bruce. He had intended on teaching him Spanish and Russian before he’d gone missing. He could understand how he learnt Portuguese and Spanish – Brazil spoke a dialect and Spanish was scattered throughout South America, and in his ramblings, Jason had clearly mentioned Venezuela – but Arabic made no sense.  “When did you learn?” he asked, indicating to the book.

Bruce hadn’t seen Jason turn such a bright shade of red in years. The last time it was because he’d been caught with Donna Troy under his bed and Dick hadn’t known who to yell at first – his brother for sleeping with his best friend or his best friend for sleeping with his little brother. Dick had gotten even angrier when Bruce had to bite his tongue not to laugh. “I um…” Jason’s eyes darted around the room, and Bruce felt a frown grown deep on his face. “I spent some time in the Middle East.”

It was becoming more and more apparent just how little Bruce knew about what had happened to Jason. “Maybe, we should talk later,” Bruce said, and some of Dick’s soothsaying decided to come out of his mouth. “We’ve spoken around everything and, I don’t think that’s healthy. For either of us.”

Jason tensed up on the bed, curling in on himself just the slightest bit. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Bruce sighed, running a hand through his hair. “And even if you don’t want to talk about everything, I need to tell you some things. About The Joker. About what happened when you left.”

Jason nodded slowly. “Sure. After dinner.”

“After dinner,” Bruce agreed.

* * *

Even though Jason was content with sitting up in his room, curiosity made him go downstairs after he heard the doorbell ring. They were setting up basic phone and internet in the living room. Jason wasn’t quite sure why Bruce didn’t just do it himself. He’d set up WiFi in the Batcave before.

But when he went down and sat on the couch, watching the two men working, one of them heavily tattooed, he realised the house hadn’t even been connected to the phone lines, though the wiring was set up. Bruce could probably work that out himself, but what he would have done in three days, they did in two hours. That meant, when they left, all Bruce had to do to make the line secure, was attach a small security clip to the wiring rather than reroute an entire system.

When the men had left, Bruce tested the Internet out with his laptop and flicker of a smile came on his face as he read something. “What?” Jason asked, curiously wondering what could get Bruce to look like that.

Bruce turned the laptop around and handed it to Jason. It was a news article, written in English and the blown up photograph was of Tim and Dick as Robin and Nightwing respectively, with the Mayor of Gotham. “He was kidnapped. Penguin’s men, trying to leverage their boss out of Blackgate. The boys rescued him.”

Jason frowned, finger tabbing through as he read the article. “And you smile? That creep’s been running your name through the dirt.”

“That’s why I’m smiling,” Bruce said, turning the laptop back around to himself. “He owes them now. Money doesn’t make the world go around, Jason. Debts do. The boys know that, and with James’ upcoming election, I’m sure Dick will put that to good use.”

“Some fathers are proud of science trophies, you know.”

“I have every single one of Tim’s in a display cabinet in the study of my office. You and Dick were always better at sports.”

Jason’s curiosity raised its head. He knew a lot about Tim Drake. His upbringing, his fighting style, his middle name… But he also knew next to nothing about him. About who he was or why Bruce adopted him. Because he was adopted. He'd been paraded around more than Dick or Jason had because he went from one of Gotham’s most elite families to another. Legally he went by Bruce’s surname. “What about Tim?” Jason found himself asking, without even realising. “Why wouldn’t he use that information?”

Bruce was deliberately careful, and Jason could tell. He knew Tim was a delicate topic. Jason still hated him, but much like his hate for Bruce – that ebbed and waned, depending on how clear he was thinking – he couldn’t decide whether he hated him because of his own feelings or if he hated him because of something other than himself. Jason was willing to give Bruce a chance. Maybe he could give one to Tim too. “Tim would do the same. But, Selina’s told me Dick has been taking the lead on most things. Tim is spending time with Barbara.”

Jason opened his mouth to retort when he thought of why Tim would be spending time with her. _He almost lost her three weeks ago,_ a cruel voice said in his head. _All because of you._ He found himself playing with the tassels on what looked like an overpriced cushion – probably was, considering Talia. “I tried to kill him,” Jason said despite the fact he had no desire to talk about it. Not really. Bruce was confused for a second before Jason filled in the blanks. “Tim. Ages ago. Remember how I said I hacked your accounts? Did Tim ever tell you he fought Deathstroke at Wayne Tower after he went through the computers? Well, that was me.”

Bruce thought for a moment. “That was three years ago.”

“Give or take,” Jason wanted to rip the tassel off. Wanted to destroy the gold and black string. He just wasn’t sure why. He had never questioned his anger before, but Jason had never felt so manipulated inside his head before either. “I was in Arkham for what felt like forever. Then, Deathstroke was supposed to torture me. Joker called it ‘babysitting’ whenever both him and Harley were gone. He said he’d be back.” Jason could remember the feel of The Joker’s gloved hands on his face, the rough felt-like grip as they dragged over his cheek.

“Now, be a good boy for Uncle Deathstroke,” he cackled. “And when I come back, you and I can have a little chat about _costumes_. If you’re going to be coming out as my new sidekick, the whole bird thing, just ain’t gonna cut it.”

He shuddered in the present and opened his eyes that he hadn’t realised were shut. “Deathstroke wasn’t like the rest of them. He didn’t care that I was your sidekick. He wanted you dead and torturing me didn’t make a difference. Doesn’t mean he didn’t. He called it practice.” Jason wasn’t sure why the words were spilling out, but he couldn’t stop them. “He had to go because… well, you were fighting Joker, and the Asylum was collapsing. I managed to escape when some debris fell close enough that I could cut open my restraints. But Deathstroke found me on my way out, and I couldn't. So I thought I said I could pay him off. I hired him to rescue me and take me to Wayne Tower. I said, if I couldn’t pay him, then he could kill me. I borrowed his mask, and that’s where I met Tim. Managed to get away in the end. I was too weak to really fight him. But I paid Deathstroke and gave him extra to get me out of Gotham.”

Bruce had closed the laptop. He was listening, hands clasped and knuckles white as bone. Jason could tell he was angry, but he wasn’t sure as to what. “Why didn’t you come home?” Bruce asked.

Jason scoffed and emptied his chest of all emotion, all feeling. When he was like that, at least he couldn’t feel the hurt or confusion. It was something he’d trained himself in Arkham. “I hate you, Bruce. The Joker used to bring inmates in, dressed like you. Do you know how many I killed? Want to know how many more I tortured beyond repair?” His voice was as hollow as his heart. “I wanted revenge. I was too weak to take it.”

Bruce rested his elbows on his knees and pressed his hands to his face. “Thomas Blake and Mark Desmond. Catman and Blockbuster. They were in my costume. I had to identify their bodies.”

Jason grinned. “Yep. That was my handiwork right there.”

Bruce glared at Jason then snapped, “Don’t smile like that. Like _him_.” Jason’s grin faltered. He didn’t need Bruce to specify. He covered his mouth as horror filled his chest cavity. Bruce calmed just the slightest. “You’re not a cruel person, Jason. Don’t pretend you are. It doesn’t make you stronger.”

“I’m not him,” Jason said from behind his hand.

Bruce hesitated. “I think we should talk about that. Before dinner.”

“What?” Jason asked.

“Joker found a way to put his consciousness…” Bruce stopped himself, and he looked devastated. Like the world was broken.

“Put his consciousness…” Jason prompted, feeling queasy already.

“Put his consciousness inside others. Via an injected toxin,” Bruce said and stared at Jason, searching for something. Searching for something in Jason.

Searching for _The Joker._

Jason stood up so suddenly, the laptop fell off his knees. “No.”

Bruce stood up slowly. “Calm down.”

“ _He_ is not inside of me!” Jason growled.

“I’m not saying that he is. I don’t think he is. He only perfected the serum just before his death. Unless Joker had access to Titan all those years ago, there shouldn’t be anything inside of you. But if he used you as an experiment, early tests, there might be _something_ in you.” Bruce moved closer, and Jason wanted to throw him back and pull him in at the same time. He wanted to scream and run and curl up and die, and he was so conflicted with emotions, all he could do was stand still and shake.

Panic seised his throat because if it were true, it would make sense of everything. All of his hate for Bruce, all of his back and forth; if Jason was a failed experiment and just a sliver of The Joker was in him, it would make _perfect sense_ why he was so conflicted. But then _The Joker_ would be _inside of him_.

 _He_ would be _controlling_ Jason. “But I’m me,” he croaked out and squeezed his eyes at shut as the tears tried bursting out. Why was he crying all the damn time? He never cried. Not since he’d stepped out of Arkham, resolve to kill steeled into his veins. But without that resolve, he felt like he was back in the Asylum.

Sometimes, the worst part of it all was being alone. When he got a break from the pain and the torture, only to realise Bruce wasn’t coming. _Again_. “Jay,” Bruce said soothingly. His hands were being pulled away gently from something –

Oh. That was his hair. Jason was clutching at his hair, and Bruce was pulling his fingers out of the locks, holding them in front of him, squeezing his wrists. “If he did anything, it will be in your blood. We can get it checked.”

“Now. I need to know now.” Jason yanked his wrists from Bruce’s grip. Because if he were held down, he would snap necks. And Jason wanted to know if he wanted to snap necks because of himself, or because of The Joker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might not upload tomorrow. I'm driving all day and I'll probably be too tired to edit. We will see.
> 
> Drink water :)


	3. Tear me apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sort of in awe of all of your reviews.
> 
> I crashed on my couch last night and jumped on to read thinking I'd have one or two, but there were 14 waiting for me and I cried a little.
> 
> I have always wanted to be a legit writer (and even more secretly, a comic book writer) and I think FanFiction and stuff like this is the closest I'll ever get.
> 
> Thank you for letting me live out my dream a little.

Jason was shaking as Bruce went to withdraw blood from his veins. His hands, his legs, his body – Bruce didn’t think he could keep him still. He had found it hard to find a place to draw blood from until Jason took the needle from him and slid it expertly into his own arm, sans the tourniquet, and took out six vials that Bruce labelled to check for other things that could ensure Jason’s health.

He found the needle and vials in a box of medical equipment. “Where can we test this stuff?” Jason asked, glaring at his blood with disdain. He barely held the cotton pad to his arm before throwing it aside.

“There’s a hospital nearby. If we can get access to their pathology labs–”

“I’ll go grab my gear,” Jason said, already turning around, but Bruce grabbed his shoulder. Jason shoved his grip off. “What?”

“We don’t need it.” Bruce pulled out his phone and the business card from his back pocket. Jason snatched it from his fingers. It took a moment to read and another to comprehend it was the name of the doctor from _El Centauro._

“You want to go to Doctor Thorne with this?” he growled.

“I figured he knows how to be discreet,” Bruce explained.

Jason glared. “Do you know what he’s done? Why he doesn’t work in actual medical clinics anymore?”

Bruce might have had Selina research him. Doctor Bradford Thorne was a criminal doctor. His sins included taking care of some of Mexico – and previously America’s – worst criminals. Worse, he was supplying drugs to human trafficking rings. He claimed he never knew what the drugs were being used for and, when he was caught, fully cooperated with the authorities, even testifying against everyone involved. Even after serving his time and losing his medical licence, many wanted him dead.

“He had over the counter medicine, which means he still has access somewhere. Without my usual equipment, testing these samples could take hours, and even then I might have to send them to Alfred to properly scan the data.”

Jason nodded tightly and looked away, eyes glazing over as he got lost in some dark thought. “Jay.” Bruce found more and more that the easiest way to get through to Jason was by saying his name. He shifted his gaze to Bruce, eyes too blue to be neutral. “No matter what we find, we’ll deal with it together. I’m not giving up on you.”

Jason’s eyes flickered away. “Let’s just go already.”

* * *

It felt normal, being in the car with Jason again. The last few days of being in the house had been the strange ones, but driving down the open road with Jason sitting next to him was easy. Driving gave the illusion of doing something without needing to talk.

It wasn’t so much that Jason made him uncomfortable, but that conflict that he couldn’t punch or physically take down made him uncomfortable. And Jason was clearly conflicted. He was staring out the window, forehead pressed against the glass and arms wrapped around his middle. He was wearing one of Bruce’s jumpers again, eyes bruised from lack of sleep. Bruce wasn’t sure why he was running so cold all the time.

He reached his hand out, and Jason swung his head to glare at him. Bruce’s froze. Despite the glare, he moved his hand closer and pressed his knuckles against Jason’s forehead. He was like an ice block compared to his own skin. “It’s not a fever. You’re not hot at all.”

“Thanks for the boost of confidence.” Jason shoved his hand away.

“It’s eighty out. You’re wearing fleece.”

Jason shrugged. “Bad circulation.”

Bruce turned on the heater again. Bruce would sweat, but Jason reached his fingers out and touched the AC, shuddering at the warmth. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

With a shrug, Bruce turned off the fans on his side of the car and was happy to continue the ride silently, when Jason sat up. “So, you said there were others infected. How… How many?”

Bruce thought of the five containment cells and Tim’s face when he told him Barbara was alive. On the one hand, locking Tim up had cemented his distrust of Bruce and, most likely, he wouldn’t forgive him. On the other hand – he looked at Jason. Jason wouldn’t be with him if Bruce hadn’t locked Tim inside. He wasn’t choosing. But this way, he had a better chance of having both. “Five. Only five.”

“Did you cure them?”

Bruce couldn’t lie. But he couldn’t exactly tell him the truth either. He didn’t think the fragile thing they had between them could handle that pressure. “No.”

“Are you telling me there are _five_ Joker’s running around?” Jason’s eye turned towards where they both knew Gotham was. Bruce wondered if he was worried about someone. Dick and Alfred. He had also noticed Crime Alley was barely touched by Jason’s stunt. Was there someone there?

“They’re dead. They broke out of their cells and killed each other. Only one of them could be The Joker, so the others ended up dead,” Bruce explained.

“And the one who remained?”

Bruce chose his words carefully. Lying by omission. It was a skill. “The last one to succumb to the effects killed himself after becoming convinced he was inadequate.” Bending the truth around the omission was a skill too.

“So there’s no cure,” Jason surmised. His fist tightened on his lap. “He could be in my head whispering shit, and there’s no way to cure me.”

“I’ll find something,” Bruce said certainly.

“No need. If Joker’s in me, I’ll blow my head off,” Jason grunted, fists balled up on his lap.

Bruce slammed on the brakes and, yet again, Jason wasn’t wearing his seatbelt. As he launched, Bruce slammed his hand over Jason’s chest to stop him flying through the window, _again_. “Stop,” Bruce growled.

“Stop what?” Jason practically shouted, apparently startled by the sudden halt.

“This.” Bruce glared at Jason. He shrunk back in his chair as _trying to get yourself killed_ went unspoken. “I told you, you are not better off dead. If The Joker has done something to you, I will fix it.”

Jason glared at him. “And if you can’t?”

“Then we deal with that too.” Bruce used his arm, still fixed across Jason’s chest to hit him. Lightly, but still forceful enough to make him aware of it. “How many times do I have to prove to you that I’m trying to keep you safe?” Bruce moved his hand until he could grab Jason’s and locked his fingers over his fist. “I am not losing you again. I couldn’t live with myself if you died again. Do you understand?” Jason looked down at their hands, and Bruce remembered the first time Jason grabbed his hand. It was when Bruce had shown up to the orphanage and offered to take him home, while Jason knew full well who he was. Before any social worker could say anything, Jason lunged up and grabbed Bruce, knotting their fingers together and begging him to take him home.

“Yeah.” Jason opened his palm and squeezed Bruce’s hand just as tight as he had then. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See How Deep The Bullet Lies  
> Or any misery you choose  
> Like you're giving up  
> So I take off my face (cause it reminds me how it all went wrong)  
> What have I become (my sweetest friend?)  
> I'll tell you all the story  
> You don't know half of the abuse  
> Erase all the pain till it's gone  
> Crawling back to you  
> When God decides to look the other way  
> \- I'm trying not to give too much away (because in my mind I think the clues I've been laying down in all of these chapters are all very telling... they're probably not, but in my mind you all know the intimate details of the plot)


	4. God only knows...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So when I first plotted this out, I'd done some research and thanks to Google images at Arkham wikia found out a bit about Arkham!Jason's backstory. For those of you who don't know, Willis Todd had tried to sell Jason a few times to make up for his debts but no one ever bought him. Also, the last quote is what Joker said to Jason when he kidnapped him from the comic (I found a page of it somewhere and now I can't find it to link it).  
>   
> EDIT: Ladynovagreen gave a link to a website with the comics, and I found the page.  
> http://readcomiconline.to/Comic/Batman-Arkham-Knight-Genesis/Issue-3?id=25755#13

Jason didn’t exactly love the situation he was in. He stared at the back of Bruce’s head as studied blood samples through a microscope and machines were buzzing and whirring away, ready to tell Jason his fate.

He glanced over at Bradford Thorne. He didn’t give Jason the warm and fuzzies either. Jason didn’t trust him. There was no way he didn’t know where those drugs were going to. All he had to do was take five minutes to research the people he was selling to, to figure that out. Not to mention the fact he had worked for the criminals before that.

It turned out that Bradford’s access to medical equipment was through an animal clinic run by a friend. He observed them while they worked on things. “You heal well,” Thorne said. “Your father took better care of you than I thought.”

Jason didn’t care to give him an answer. He also wasn’t sure how he felt about cracking open the ‘father’ jar with Bruce yet. So he nodded once to acknowledge him and kept staring at Bruce, trying to will the tests to run faster.

He wasn’t sure what he was scared of more. If The Joker was inside of him and he had been used as a puppet or if The Joker wasn’t there and everything Jason had done was of his own volition. Because the latter left Jason back at square one, wondering why his hatred of Bruce was in constant flux and why so many of his memories were hard to recall.

He glanced down at his hands.

Bruce had held his hand the entire drive to Durango in a bruising grip as if Jason was going to disappear at any second. Maybe Jason deserved that. He hadn’t had the best track recording of staying put. When Jason got angry, he ran away, only the last time he did that he got kidnapped and Bruce thought he had been killed.

His mind flickered back to another time he had run and Jason squinted back a headache as memories superimposed themselves in the forgotten timeline – a timeline he had thought he knew pretty well until recently.

It was the eve of his twelfth birthday, and Lucius had just finished updates on the Batmobile.

Back then, the Batmobile hadn’t been a Monster Truck like the latest version. Back then, it had been sleeker, with hidden weapons and machinery. Like a Bond car, only faster.

Jason had woken up restless in the middle of the night. Something about the next day felt oppressively frightful and that, in turn, made Jason want to do something reckless. He wanted to see the Batmobile. He had heard something about a new engine and crept down into the Batcave.

At first, Jason had just wanted to look under the hood. He lifted it up and gaped at the chrome spectacle beneath. It was beautiful. Or at least, it was to Jason. Wires, gears, moving parts, all clunky and mismatched on their own, fitted together to make one seamless piece of machinery. Some people thought the stuff that hung on walls in museums was art, but Jason would much rather stare at car parts for days than spend a minute with Michelangelo’s David.

He touched the battery shyly. He’d heard Lucius fitted the car out with some crazy new gear. Curiosity itched at him as he thought of the blueprints he had seen for the engine and the chassis, designed to let the car roll out of accidents and keep Batman and Robin perfectly safe. The only problem was, to see it all more clearly, he would have to get underneath the car.

Jason didn’t even think about _not_ lifting it up. It was like the car was begging him to do it, and Jason wasn’t about to refuse.

The Batmobile was low so that Jason had to be careful as he wedged the jack underneath. Jason had never been good with car jacks. He had learnt how to jack up a car with speed, not precision. If you were stealing car parts, you needed to be quick. Safety was secondary. Even though he’d had time, eagerness made him sloppy and he only half-paid attention as he jacked the car up with two jacks he’d used on the old Batmobile time and time again, without issue.

He found the backboard and a light, slid underneath and gaped.

It was amazing.

Jason reached up one hand, brushing his hand over the engine beneath. It was crazy to think that for the next few months – because, no doubt, Lucius or Bruce would think of another upgrade soon enough – that the engine would be responsible for getting them to and from saving lives. When he sat in the car, it would be what was roaring beneath him. It was going to be his life support too if something were to ever happen to him on the field. The rumble of the Batmobile always managed to feed into his excitement. Jason still got butterflies when he thought about the fact _he was Robin_ , and riding in the car was like the certificate hanging on a wall proving that. A mark that he had done it. He had beaten street kid statistics and had a family. A home.

So awe-inspired, Jason didn’t realise time passing or the gentle groan of the unstable jacks. Not until someone called out to him. “Jason?”

Jason winced and put his hands on the front bumper and went to roll himself out when one of the jacks made an impressive cracking noise. “Jason!” Bruce’s voice came out rougher, angrier. It was the same tone he used just before Jason missed a bad guy and at the same time he shoved himself out, Bruce grabbed his ankles and yanked him from underneath the car.

Half of the Batmobile came down, crunching on the front of the bumper and Bruce’s hands were tight around his ankles. He looked up at his mentor, and new guardian and the anger on his face made Jason blanch. He looked back at the car, the front crunched and maybe even parts underneath. “I’m sorry…” he began to mumble, and Bruce turned and stared at him as if noticing him for the first time.

“What were you thinking?” Bruce hissed.

Jason recoiled, pulling his legs out of Bruce’s grip and scrambled up. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Bruce snapped. “You could… the car… Why are you even down here?” Bruce Wayne, incapable of words. If Jason hadn’t been so petrified, he would have documented the moment.

Only, he was scared. Crazily scared. He’d never seen Bruce angry like that before. Not at him. He’d been there eight months. He’d only been acting as Robin for four of those months. And he could feel that unravelling and was already running through all the places where he could live on the streets of Gotham, without getting killed himself. “Answer me!” Bruce yelled, but Jason couldn’t. He couldn’t stand there and let Bruce take away the most significant thing in his life either. He couldn’t stand being forced back to the streets and listen to Bruce try and bargain his life away. To sell him to the highest bidder. He didn’t think Bruce would be as unsuccessful as Willis Todd either.

So Jason turned, and he ran.

Bruce shouted after him, but Jason kept running, feet pounding on the dirt, up through the tunnels and out of the Batcave. He passed through all security, biometrics opening the tunnels up for him to escape into the woods. He hadn’t been sure where he was going. He didn’t know the woods around Wayne Manor as well as he possibly should have. He stumbled and fell and hit the ground, a terror reaching up into his lungs and yanking at them. Or maybe it was a lack of oxygen from running and fear. Either way, Jason felt like he couldn’t draw a proper breath.

“Jason!” Bruce’s voice echoed out of the entrance to the Batcave and Jason tried getting up, to keep running, but he could barely breathe. Bruce stopped outside the cave and glanced around. When his eyes finally landed on Jason, he closed the distance between them. Jason scrambled back, one hand on his chest and the other dug into the earth behind him. “Jay,” Bruce had hands on him, and Jason struggled, but only until he realised Bruce wasn’t attacking him.

He was lifting him up. Looking him over. “Jason, breathe. In… and out. In…. and out.” Bruce created a steady rhythm with his voice and Jason followed orders. Like a good soldier, he breathed in and out on command until his breathing was back on track. At the same time though, he was exhausted.

The sudden kick of adrenaline and instant drop had worn him out, and his eyes were falling shut before he could beg for Bruce’s forgiveness.

Hours later, he had woken up in his bed. There was a bandage on his knee that he didn’t remember grazing, and Bruce Wayne was sitting in an armchair next to his bed. “You’re awake,” Bruce said quietly. Jason had wanted to close his eyes and go back to sleep straight away. “Happy Birthday.”

Jason blinked in surprise, looking up at Bruce. He hadn’t expected that. His birthday had rarely been acknowledged before. He looked at the nightstand to look at the time when a pile of presents on his desk caught his attention. He sat up and stared. “What are they?” he asked stupidly.

“Your gifts,” Bruce replied, carefully. “From Dick, Barbara, Alfred, and myself. Also, Selina and Diana sent you something. I think there are more downstairs. Wally dropped some off this morning, and Lois messaged me something about checking my mail.”

Presents. All of them wrapped and boxed like Jason saw in the movies. “Why?” Jason asked. “I don’t even know Wally that well. I just met him once.”

“He dropped off more than one present. They’re from all the Titans.”

Jason wasn’t sure how to feel about that. He wasn’t quite sure what he was doing either. Jason had just crushed the front of the Batmobile the night before, and now he was in bed, being wished a happy birthday, and surrounded by presents. It wasn’t a normal turn of events. “Are you feeling better? You had a panic attack.”

Jason knew what that was. He’d seen it before. In Crime Alley when one of the Working Girls got too close to a guy she wasn’t comfortable with. He blushed, feeling weak. He wasn’t a damsel in distress or a hooker who had been used just a little too much. “I don’t want you to be angry with me,” Jason muttered darkly, glaring at his hands. “I’m sorry I damaged the car. It was an accident.”

Because that would be the worst. If Bruce was angry with Jason. If he threw him out, away from the Manor. From Alfred and from Dick. He would rather not ever have had any of it to begin with than lose it all because of a mistake.

Maybe that was the punishment. Bring him back to the Manor, show him all the presents and love he could have had and then throw him out. Jason felt his throat tighten at the thought and his defences rose. If Bruce was going to be that cruel, Jason could take it. He just had to breathe through it.

“I’m not angry at you,” Bruce said.

“Don’t _lie_.” Anger bubbled up in Jason’s skin. He had seen Bruce’s face. Jason knew what rage looked like and Bruce had been overcome with it. “I saw you. You’re going to throw me out!” _Get it over with,_ a voice in Jason’s head begged. _Just don’t draw it out._

“I’m not going to throw you out. And I wasn’t angry because you damaged the car,” Bruce exasperated. Jason glared back at him in disbelief. “I was angry because I came downstairs and watched you almost get killed because you didn’t take care to prop up the car properly.”

Jason frowned. He heard Bruce’s warning in the back of his head, felt his hands grasp around his ankles, and give a hard tug. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Half a second more and your head would have been crushed,” Bruce said, voice stone cold and impassive. “I’m angry because you were reckless and didn’t check. If I hadn’t come down, you would have still been under there when the jack gave way. You endangered your life for nothing.”

Jason fell silent, unsure of how to respond to that. A part of him wanted to mention that it wasn’t the first time a car had almost landed on top of him while he was under it. The quality of jacks in Crime Alley weren’t all that great and, as previously stated, Jason wasn’t all that great with jacks. But none of that was going to be helpful. “Jay, lad,” Bruce sighed, long, slow and heavy. “Why did you,” and Jason had expected a hundred things there. ‘Go down to the Batcave alone?’ ‘Look under the car?’ ‘Not go to bed?’ were a few of them. “Run away from me?” Was what Bruce said instead of all of that and he was momentarily stunned.

“I…” How could he explain it? Bruce had never raised a hand to him – training didn’t count – but when he saw his face, all he could feel was Willis’s hand jerking his arm and yanking him down the road to hand him off to the local drug lord. That was Jason’s work experience and punishments. He would do jobs Willis should have been doing, and the threat of being sold off to one of them to repay any debts Jason couldn’t work off was always there. “I don’t want you to throw me out,” Jason confessed.

Bruce narrowed his eyes and repeated, “I’m not going to throw you out. Why would you think that?”

Jason shrugged, feeling more childish by the second. “I don’t know. Dick’s not around.”

“Dick comes and goes. We argue, he storms off, but he always comes back. This is his home.”

“You could have sold me,” he mumbled, but even as he said it, Jason knew it was a stupid thought. Bruce was a multi-billionaire. He had no need to sell him.

“I’m not going to sell you, Jason,” Bruce looked exhausted. As if the words were tiring him out, and he was done with saying them. But Jason knew Bruce and knew that no matter how tired he got, he wouldn’t stop. “I’d never sell you.”

“My own Dad tried selling me,” Jason said. He hadn’t thought he’d particularly cared about that fact. It was just a statement. Or, he tried to let it be.  “And my mom… For heaps dumber reasons.”

Bruce’s brow furrowed, and he knelt down in front of Jason, pressing a hand on his knee. “Catherine and Willis Todd weren’t good at being your mom and dad. They might have brought you into this world, but parents – real parents – can’t stand to be apart from their child. Real parents don’t sell their children.”

Jason frowned. “They did good stuff too.” And he was defending them again. Making them look good in front of their parole officers and CPS. “Sometimes Dad would steal me ice cream for dinner.” _If he remembered_ , he didn’t say. Or that it was when he was high. Or that Jason usually only got leftovers from his mother’s munchies.

The look on Bruce’s face didn’t instil him with confidence. “I won’t sell you. Or throw you out. You could burn the house down, and I’d still keep you by my side.”

“Really?” Jason said, giving Bruce a sceptical frown.

A small smile broke out on Bruce’s face. Just a small one, softening his eyes. “Yes. But maybe don’t do that. Alfred wouldn’t be pleased.”

“Why?” Jason asked. “I mean, why me? It’s not like you need a son. You’ve got Dick… Or is it just cause he’s mad at you and doesn’t want to be Robin anymore?” Jason’s cheeks flushed red, and he hadn’t been able to figure out why he had confessed that.  It was a worry that often went through his mind, but something he rarely wanted to admit. “I mean–”

“I can have two sons,” Bruce said, lifting up Jason’s chin as it fell to his chest. He made him look him in the eye. It was unnerving when Bruce did that. Before, it had only been when Jason was in a lot of trouble that he was forced to do that. But most crooks preferred it when Jason trembled in front of them. Bruce, however, liked when Jason looked him in the eye. When he did something good or bad, Bruce wanted Jason to engage him no matter what. “And even if Dick hadn’t left, I still would have brought you home. You impressed me Jason, and that’s very hard to do. But more so, when I met you, I realised something.”

Jason remembered his heart, filling up with a swelling up with a burning feeling that he had never quite had before. “What?” He needed to know what it was and what had Bruce’s eyes look like that. He didn’t really know that look or what it meant.

“I could never stand to be apart from you.” Bruce had let those words sink in and Jason – well, Jason had never felt so loved before. He hadn’t known then and there that, that was the feeling in his chest. But it was good. Sometimes, when Bruce and Jason had real arguments that ended with Jason being grounded as Robin, he would close his eyes and remember that morning and remind himself. Tiny tears had slipped down his face, but Bruce had ignored them and held out his hand. They went downstairs for his birthday breakfast as if nothing had ever happened and, the next day the Batmobile was fixed.

_Ding._

Jason blinked as the computer analysis finished and brought him to the present. Bruce looked up from the microscope and started reading through the data. Jason sat anxiously on the edge of the table, and Thorne kept looking between Bruce and Jason. He still wasn’t sure why they were there. “Well?” Jason demanded. He could still feel where Bruce’s fingers had clasped around his knuckles in the car and the skin tingled with nerves. “Anything?”

Bruce nodded tightly. “I’m just going to send this data to Alfred to confirm. Then we can go.” He looked back over his shoulder at Jason and briefly nodded to Thorne. Jason got the message. They’d talk outside. Alone.

Nervous sweat trickled down the back of his neck. He wanted to punch Bruce. He wanted to punch Thorne. Jason just wanted to hit something. “I’ll be in the car.” He pushed himself off the table and shoved his hands into the pocket of the jacket Bruce had given him. His hand wrapped around a packet of cigarettes he swiped at the gas station on their way.

He should have done it earlier.

Outside the air was fresh, but not cold. To Jason, the air felt like ice. Like it was about to shatter his bones. He pulled the hood over his head and pulled out a cigarette. The nicotine patch was still on his arm, but it wasn’t giving him the same vibe as actual tar-filled tobacco would. He lit it up and inhaled. He could feel his lungs burning, the ash cracking through the alveoli.

Well, he couldn’t. But Bruce explained how badly smoking damaged his lungs once and ever since Jason pictured it in his mind every time he smoked. When he was a teenager, the visual had helped him quit. Now it fuelled his obsession with smoking. “Stealing?” Jason startled as Bruce appeared behind him.

“You weren’t buying.” He had no energy to be angry. “What did you find?”

“In the car.”

“Bruce!”

Bruce fixed him with a hard glare and Jason shivered but – like a damn _good_ _little soldier_ – followed instruction. In the car, Bruce left the window up despite the cigarette. Probably for the same reason he had cranked the heater up, even though he was sweating. He was worried about Jason. He was concerned that Jason was so cold.

“Good or bad first?” Bruce asked with a quiet sigh.

Jason swallowed stiffly. He hadn’t expected the resigned look on his mentor’s face, and his stomach bottomed out. “Bad.” His voice was so small, he felt shame spread throughout him. He cleared his throat. “Bad,” he repeated, trying to sound sturdier.

“You definitely have a strain of Titan in your bloodstream. It’s why you heal fast. It is diluted, but it’s bonded with your DNA somehow. It could explain why your mood swings are so much more erratic than before.”

Jason hunched up defensively. “I don’t have–”

Bruce only raised his eyebrow to cut Jason off, and he glared at the floor, unable to defend himself. “Want to know the good news?”

He lifted his head just the slightest bit, and Bruce was wearing a small smile. “There is no trace of any strain of The Joker serum. Not from what I can see.”

“Are you sure?” Jason asked, and he felt his cheeks flush red with how small and pitiful he sounded.

Bruce nodded. “I’ve sent a sample to Alfred to confirm, but my worry was unfounded.”

Jason’s heart leapt into his throat. He was clean of The Joker. At least, internally – he touched his cheek lightly. He glanced over to Bruce, and his mind reeled, showing him a hundred different ways he could kill his ex-mentor with just the instruments inside the car. _So I am just a monster_.

His knuckles tightened into fists, and he glared at the window again. “I thought you would be happier,” Bruce murmured.

Jason didn’t know what to feel. “I wanted a reason,” he whispered. “If Joker’s in my head, then everything I did makes sense. It wasn’t my fault. I’m not a monster. But… It is. I am. I did this.” He sniffed and tilted his head back. The words bubbled up to his throat, and he couldn’t stop them. “It’s like… There are two Jason’s. There’s the one who survived The Joker. Who hates you and him. Who wants to see blood run in the streets of Gotham. He’s strong. Stronger than I ever was. But he’s so angry that it’s tiring. It hurts too, because he can be beaten bloody, but can’t look himself in the mirror. He can’t even eat without plotting ways to kill you and the birds because it’s what fuels his entire existence.”

“And the other Jason?” Bruce quietly asked when Jason paused.

“He’s tired,” Jason murmured. “And confused. And scared. He doesn’t know what’s going on. He… he wonders if he’s in Arkham. Still. Under fear gas or something. He hates what he’s done and just wants it all to stop. He… He still thinks Batman’s coming to save him.”

Bruce went quiet. He was fidgeting. Scratching his fingers on his trousers. Jason had never seen Bruce so on edge when they weren’t suited up. “You’re not under fear gas. You’re not still in the Asylum,” Bruce said, his voice unwavering. He reached his hand out and grabbed Jason’s. _And I’m here,_ the gesture said. _I’m right here, son._ “Do you think you can run?” Bruce asked quietly.

Jason frowned, head snapping to his mentor as he a million reasons why he would need to run flashed through his head. He sat up, on alert, and nodded.

“Tomorrow morning. Come running with me. It helps take your mind off things.” There was a nervous tremble in the usual stoic’s man’s voice, and Jason squeezed his eyes shut. Bruce was trying. He was trying so hard.

 _Hahaha! Did you see the look on his face? I know my Batsy, and this is just gonna leave him in tears!_ Joker’s taunting as he dragged Jason away to Arkham rung out in his ears. He’d forgotten that too. How had he forgotten so much?

“Yeah. I’ll come.” He rolled the window down just enough to flick out his cigarette.

Bruce followed the cigarette out the window, and his face evened out, the way it did when he was formulating a plan. “I will buy you a packet of cigarettes a week if you promise me, you’ll work towards quitting and finding a more productive way to calm yourself.”

Jason glared at him for a second but realised it would be easier than his current method of getting cigarettes which was tagging along on Bruce’s shopping trips and lifting one. He agreed. “Anything else?” he asked dryly.

“No more killing,” Bruce replied, without blinking.

Jason stiffened, feeling the crunch of the fighter’s skull beneath his boot. He felt sickened by the whole thing and, more than anything, he just wanted another cigarette. “I can’t promise that. If someone does something bad–”

“We let the law handle it,” Bruce said, repeating a mantra he’d tried to drill into Jason years ago. “And if you won’t do it for me, do it for yourself.”

“I’m fine with it,” Jason croaked, but Bruce was already shaking his head.

“It’s broken something inside of you,” Bruce said. Jason opened his mouth to object but Bruce didn’t let him speak. “I can see and hear it in your voice whenever you talk about all the deaths. You may believe in what you're doing, but it's taken something out of you.”

Jason hated being under scrutiny and more over, he hated how right Bruce was. How, his words pierced his armour and made him feel exposed. “Okay,” he said. “No more.” He wiped at his face where a stray tear had slipped out and cleared his throat. “Can we go now?”

Bruce nodded quietly and started up the car. He peeled out of the street and Jason tilted his head back to watch the roof as more of the night he was abducted came back to him. _And God only knows what it’s going to do to you._

God only knew what it had done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is it for this story.
> 
> There will be another one.
> 
> And it will be longer, but will probably be posted in a week.
> 
> Next one is called: So I take off my face (cause it reminds me how it all went wrong)
> 
> You all mean the world to me.
> 
> ithoughtslashmeanthorror (aka Bianca)


End file.
